i raise my voice to the air and we are blessed
by ainsleyhayes
Summary: After Pam's failed art show, her teacher shows her something that leads to an epiphany, of sorts. She had the courage and honesty all along... she just needed a certain someone to bring it out. Post-Business School. Jim/Pam
1. Pravda

**Title:** i raise my voice to the air and we are blessed

**Rating:** T (think PG-13), with a slight possibly of changing up to a _mild_ M in part 3 (if I'm feeling saucy, which is unlikely)

**Author's Note:** I know this is a bit late to the 'Business School' party… but seeing as how we've all been deprived for far too long, I thought I'd maybe work on finishing this WIP. It should be no longer than three parts (and part two is already written… hooray!). Please to enjoy, and thank you for reading. The next chapter will be up shortly.

**Disclaimer:** The Office doesn't belong to me, as hard as I've tried to make Jim Halpert my love-slave. But alas, it is not so, so I'll let Ms. Beesly have him instead. Lucky. The title comes from Patty Griffin's incredibly moving song **Forgiveness** which I highly recommend, but guess what – I don't own that, either. The chapter title, **Pravda** is Russian for **truth** (at least according to my extensively limited knowledge of the beautiful Russian language it does).

* * *

Pam sat in her art class, only a few days after her failed show. She was unable to focus, mind jumping from thoughts of Jim to her dead-end relationship with Roy to Oscar and Gil's comments about her art… by the time she snapped back to reality, her class was over and most of the other students had gone. Blushing, she looked over to her teacher and smiled sheepishly as she began to gather her things. Mr. Mooney was an older man, long salt and pepper hair, wild beard – his hands were always stained with one substance or another, dried clay or paint, calloused and rough from his years as an artist. He was mildly eccentric but rather soft-spoken, so Pam couldn't hide her surprise when he addressed her. 

"I can't see what you're so afraid of, Pam," he mused, almost to himself. "You have enormous potential, so much to give – why won't you let go and let yourself be inspired, free?"

Before the show, she could see herself regressing, almost as if she was watching her life from the outside, not participating in the events unfolding. She felt less and less like 'Fancy New Beesly' each day following Phyllis' wedding, after leaving with Roy and falling back into the same old pattern. What hurt more than the realization that she was a coward was how quickly Jim came to disregard everything… Pam. The few times she caught him looking, the disappointment etched into his features was more than she could bear.

"Pam?" Mr. Mooney's low timber was soothing, pulling her out of her thoughts, softly demanding, "What's holding you back?"

She smiled, sad, for once in her life knowing exactly how to answer that question. "It's been said that I lack courage and honesty." A pause, and the smile left her face. Everything about her softened as she admitted, "I guess you could call it unrequited love."

The man opposite her had no reply, save a look of intense thought and something almost akin to understanding. She took his silence as her cue to leave and was already to the door of the classroom when his voice stopped her.

"I think you're a true artist, Pam." She turned, and he was fumbling around at his desk. "When things get tough, the true artist knows where to look to get through it."

Giving her a meaningful look, he handed her something that looked vaguely familiar, and when it hit her hands, she realized that it was her first sketchbook for his class. It was his turn to walk to the door, but before he left he offered, "I marked the pages that I thought were… inspired. Goodnight, Pam."

She sat down at one of the tables, suddenly intrigued to know what of _her_ work could have possibly inspired him. She opened to the first page he'd tabbed, and the image there popped out at her. Hands.

More specifically, Jim's hands.

Long, slender fingers rendered in charcoal, each line in his palm drawn with painstaking detail. She remembered when she had drawn this, after the fight between Dwight and Michael at the dojo, after she had studied his palm as if it were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

She couldn't look at the drawing of his hands without remembering how tightly they'd held her when he kissed her, and it was distracting her from the task at hand. She forced herself to turn to the next page Mr. Mooney had marked, and what she saw made her gasp.

Again, it was Jim. This time, his face. He was smiling, giving her the smile that she knew was reserved for only her. She stared down at the image, and it made her heart ache for the days when that smile was a regular occurrence.

Pam continued to flip through the tabbed pages, astounded when she realized that every single marked picture had something to do with Jim. She felt her breath catch in her throat when she came upon the simple yet almost photographic pencil sketch of Jim's face that night on the deck of the Booze Cruise. The oil painting of Dwight's stapler in Jell-O made her laugh aloud, and with the laugh her tears began to fall. Jim's smile, his eyes, another sketch of his hands; all in different mediums, each more expressive than the one before… there were some images that she didn't even remember creating. Her teapot in oil pastels was one such drawing… it was clear to her that her subconscious had been telling her the obvious truth all along, but the rest of her was too damn stubborn to see it.

She physically started when she came to the last marked page. It was Jim, again, but unlike the rest of her drawings, he wasn't smiling or carefree. It was Casino Night, inside the office where he'd kissed her so passionately. There wasn't the precise detail in this image that there was in the rest of the book, but there was an element that had escaped all of the other drawings.

Pam herself was in this image.

To someone who didn't know, it was just charcoal, a smudged and blurred rendering of two nondescript bodies embracing passionately against a desk in an office. But she knew better.

The images leaped off of the page, and she could see Jim's taller, broader form hovering above her own. She could see her own, so scared and apprehensive looking up at him. She could see his desk, the desk she migrated to every day back then. In the background, she saw her own desk and the small geometric smudge that she knew was her jellybean dish.

She snapped the sketchbook closed, unable to look at the images any longer. Suddenly, she knew what Mr. Mooney had been trying to tell her, what she had known herself all along.

Jim Halpert was her inspiration, not only in her artistic world, but in every other aspect of her life as well.

Over the next week, Pam kept her distance, rarely straying from reception. But at her perch, she watched him, taking in every expression on his face, every movement of his long, graceful body. She had immediately purchased a new sketchbook after flipping through her old one, and both of them traveled with her wherever she went: they went to the conference room, hidden inside a manila folder; they sat on her nightstand when she went to sleep at night; they even came along with her to the grocery store, because she never knew when the inspiration would strike her, and the urge to channel the flash of line and shape onto paper was irrepressible.

Thoughts of him filled her head constantly, and she had realized that Jim Halpert had become her unsuspecting muse. He always had been.

By her next art class, the brand new book was nearly full. It had been an awakening, looking through the old sketchbook; never had she drawn more inspiration from the world around her. Her class was uneventful, and she left quietly, forgoing words for a telling smile at Mr. Mooney. He returned it with a nod, his eyes sparkling, knowing that she had finally let go and let the world in.

Pam was apprehensive, but she knew that nothing could stop her now. Instead of taking the usual left to drive home, she steeled herself and turned right. It occurred to her that she hadn't thought ahead, that maybe he wouldn't want to see her, or maybe he wasn't even home, or, oh, God, maybe he _was_ home but he wasn't alone. That another woman was already there.

But she knew that this was something she needed to do.

Pam pulled into his driveway, thankful that only his car was present and the lights were on inside. A deep breath propelled her out of her car and toward his front door. Her knock was firm, more confident than she felt, but as she heard him yell out, "Just a minute!" she realized that she wasn't afraid.

For the first time in her life, she wasn't afraid.

* * *

-Well, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed what's there so far. If you liked it (or didn't) let me know with a review and/or story alert… it's always nice to know someone's reading. ;-) Thanks so much, Ainsley. 


	2. Aspiro

**Rating:** T (think PG-13), with a slight possibly of changing up to a _mild_ M in part 3 (if I'm feeling saucy)

**Author's Note:** Here is chapter two! This is the last of what was previously written, so the third chapter might not come as quickly. But I would like to take the time to thank those of you that reviewed or put this story on alert. I really, really appreciate it – it's just nice as an author to know that someone is getting something out of what you're writing. If I could get some feedback on this chapter, as well, I'd especially appreciate it, as I am going to need some inspiration in order to get my muse in gear.

**Disclaimer: **The Office doesn't belong to me. I promise. The title comes from Patty Griffin's incredibly moving song **Forgiveness**, which I highly recommend, but guess what – I don't own that, either. The chapter title, **Aspiro** is Latin, meaning to breathe or exhale, also meaning to reach for something.

Jim's hand was running through his unruly hair as he opened the door, and Pam found herself wishing that she could freeze time so that she could capture the moment on paper. That she could draw the strong features of his face, the expression of utter shock that rested there. That she could commit the long lines of his fingers to paper, the way one hand was frozen at the door and the other was stalled in his mop of hair. More than anything, she wanted to draw his eyes, so expressive and alive, engaging hers in a silent conversation.

The silence was thick between them. She was first to break it, asking, "Can I come in?" Jim said nothing, just stepped back from the door to allow her room to enter.

Stepping into his home, Pam found she was struck with how utterly… _Jim_ the room was. It seemed like a place fit for Jim, so comfortable and inviting, safe. It smelled like him, and she welcomed it, moving further into the room to take a better look around.

The sound of the door closing startled her; she turned and met Jim's eyes, those expressive, deep eyes. She took him in, standing before her in ratty sweatpants and an old fitted t-shirt, barefoot, hair disheveled.

He was absolutely breathtaking.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Pam was first to break the silence. "I know it's late, and I'm sorry… actually, I'm not." She smiled, nervous, but took a breath and continued. "I needed to talk to you and… can we sit down?"

Jim looked absolutely confused, but he led her into his living room where Conan O'Brien was playing softly on the TV. He turned the set off and took a seat on the couch, motioning for her to sit next to her. When he spoke, he sounded nervous, apprehensive. "Um, so what's up?"

"I had… an epiphany of sorts about a week ago," she began, figuring it was best to jump right in. "I had my art show, you know? Well, maybe three people came, and - "

"You had an art show?" he interrupted. "When?"

She was genuinely shocked – she had thought he'd known all along, had just decided not to come. "It was about a week and a half ago… I put a few flyers up around the office…"

He dropped his head. "I'm sorry, Pam. If I'd have known, I would have - "

"It's ok." Pam smiled, trying to let him know that it really was ok. "That's not why I'm here. Well… sort of. So at my show, only a few people stopped to look at my work. And I overheard someone say that the art I chose to show lacked courage and honesty."

He looked angry, started to speak, but she continued. "And they were right. I didn't realize it before… but it's true. Anyway. I went to my art class a few days later, and my teacher could tell I was upset. He… well he said a lot of things, but he basically told me to let go." A soft grin played on her face. "Easier said than done, right?"

He said nothing, but gave her a small, knowing smile. She reached for her bag, and pulled out her old sketchbook. "He gave me this… said he'd marked the pages that he had found inspired. Thus the basis of my epiphany."

"What?"

Scooting over closer to him on the couch, she opened to the first marked page: the charcoal drawing of Jim's hands. She fingered the paper gently, looked at him pointedly, and then turned the page. Next was the image of Jim himself smiling up at them. Wordlessly, she continued to flip through the pages, watching his reaction: she was again affected by the sketch of him on the Booze cruise, but as she glanced over at Jim, she found that he was as well; he laughed at the painting of Dwight's stapler; a small smile came onto his face when she turned to the oil pastel rendering of her teapot.

She took a breath and turned to the final page. "This is the one that really… showed me what I already knew," she admitted quietly, looking down at the paper.

Jim took the book out of her hands, softly touching the page. She could see his eyes welling up at the sight of them embracing in the office, and she began to tear, too. "Jim, it was right there in front of me for so long… so damn long. I saw it all along, but I just couldn't admit it to myself," Pam said, regret seeping into her voice. "God… I was just so scared Jim, was still so scared, even after I called off the wedding, after you came back… the sketchbook? It made me see that I did have the courage, the honesty…" She finally looked over at him. "But you are why I have those things."

"Pam…" Jim was still looking down at the drawing, his voice husky and so full of emotion.

"No, Jim, please… let me finish?" She pulled out her new sketchbook, set it on her lap. "You make everything so real. You inspire me to be so much more than I am. You always have. And I'm so sorry that I was too scared to admit that to myself before. I'm sorry that I settled. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Jim."

He looked up at her, his eyes shining in the soft light of his living room. His gaze suddenly too intense, Pam looked down at her lap. When she spoke, her voice was low, steady. "All this week, I've had to take this new sketchbook with me wherever I went. Everywhere I went, I would think of you, remember something we did, some time I was happy, _we_ were happy… when we were Pam and Jim… and sometimes not. But mostly I was hit with all of the great memories."

She opened the sketchbook to the first page, and despite the heaviness of the situation, Jim couldn't help laughing. "I was at the grocery store, to buy a new sketchbook? I just wanted something cheap, to last until I could find something decent," she explained absently. "And all of a sudden someone called for a price check on… God, I don't know. It doesn't matter." She laughed, blushing. "But it made me think… you remember that time when we ditched work and went to make Kevin a care package? And you made me hijack the loudspeaker?"

Jim chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair, and gently teased, "I didn't _make_ you do anything, Beesly. It isn't my fault you can't act your age."

They both laughed quietly and looked down at the page, a oil pastel drawing of Pam at the checkout counter with Jim egging her on, watching her with an amused, adoring look on his face.

She turned a few pages, past pictures of Dwight with blonde hair and a vending machine filled with his belongings, and took a deep breath to give herself the courage to continue. "I think this sums up where we are now, doesn't it."

It was a statement, not a question, and she could tell that he agreed with her.

On the paper was a detailed sketch of Jim at his old desk, looking over at her with him trademark smirk and eyebrow raise; next to it, a darker image of Jim's back in his new desk, his back to her… but she knew that he realized that this sketch was just as detailed as the first, an exact rendering of his lean back, his broad shoulders, his long, messy hair…

"This was kind of a segue… when I started to get hit with things more recent, you know?" Pam smiled, sad, then turned the page, but the smile immediately left her face when she remembered which image came next.

It was Jim and Karen. Dancing together at Phyllis' wedding. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the image, nothing particularly visionary. Just two lovely young people enjoying a dance at a wedding. Pam could tell, however, that he wasn't just glancing at the picture.

"I know you think that I don't see you, Jim… believe me, I see you," she breathed heavily. "I always have, but now… god, Jim, how did you do this for three years? How did you ignore it, ignore _this?_" she asked impatiently, pointing down to the sketchbook.

Pam knew that he understood what she was referring to. The only thing out of the ordinary in the picture was the man. Jim. He wasn't looking down at Karen, the woman in his arms; he was looking out with so much passion and undisguised desire that she thought the paper might burst into flames. The fact that Pam knew he was looking directly at _her_… like that… it made her cheeks flush with warmth.

"How did you do it?" she asked again, quieter, almost pleading. "How did you watch me with him when you knew it was wrong for me to be with him, when you knew that you loved me? I mean…" she faltered, desperate now. "I need to know how to do this, Jim, how to ignore it, because I can't keep seeing this," she shook the book in her hands, "and pretend that it doesn't kill me. I can't keep doing this," Pam flipped to the sketch of Dwight's red 'CONFIDENTIAL' file folder, "and pretend that we're _just friends._ I can't do it, Jim!"

She set the sketchbook down on the couch next to him and stood, pacing the unfamiliar territory, needing the room to breathe. Suddenly, she stilled and turned to look at him, eyes wild but so tired, a few stray tears running down her flushed cheeks. "I'm so sorry that I did this to you, Jim. I'm so sorry that I was too afraid to… god, I don't know… to _live._"

Though stunned by her outburst, Jim finally found his voice for the first time in a long while. "Pam." She turned away, embarrassed, trying to brush away her tears, so he stood and crossed over to her. "Pam." It was more forceful, and his hand on her arm made her turn to look at him.

His fingers found their way into her hair, his thumb caressing her tears away. He forced her to look up at him, his own eyes bright with unshed tears, and he said, "Show me more."

So there you have it! I'm in the process of writing the third and probably last chapter… any feedback you have will definitely help me along in that process. Thanks so much for reading, and have a great day!

-Ainsley


	3. Cyfaddef

So, it has been a year since I began this story… so I figured it was time to write more. I sincerely apologize for the extensive wait… it has been a hard year, and the writer's block has been more insane than you know, but a strange confluence of events (including my receiving a Dunder Mifflin t-shirt for my birthday today!) FINALLY allowed me to write and finish this chapter. I have a clear(ish) vision of what the fourth and final chapter will be, and I promise it will not take a year to write. But please don't give me too hard a time – it is my birthday!

**Other Notes:** The chapter title means 'confess' in Welsh. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think! Also, thank you so much to those of you who have read, alerted, and/or reviewed this story (If I haven't gotten back to you, I am so sorry! Life in insane right now…); your kind words inspire me so much.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Office: I own my DVDs, my Dwight Schrute bobblehead, and my aforementioned t-shirt. Please don't sue me – it's not worth your time.

* * *

Together they sat back down on the couch, Pam approaching the situation much more cautiously now that she had shown him what was going on in her world. She picked up the sketchbook again and turned a few pages, stopping when she came across one in particular, and smiled. 

Jim laughed softly. "I'm glad that you still have your sense of humor despite the situation," he mused, looking down at the picture.

On the left was a charcoal drawing of the kitchen, half of Jim's body absent from the image, hidden inside the ceiling. Pam was also in this drawing, looking not at all nonchalant as she tried to mask her laughter with a cup of water. On the right side of the book was a simple sketch: a hole punched in the drywall and two lone sombreros resting next to each other on the floor of the conference room, streamers and smashed piñatas littering the floor.

"Well," she chuckled softly, "I have always prided myself on being your number one partner in crime."

They both fell silent, finding the double meaning in her words. Not sure what else to say, she turned to the next page in the book.

"God," he sighed, delicately taking the book from her hands. He touched the page reverently, his hands shaking slightly. On it, she had drawn the two of them in black and white, sitting close together in the break room, smiling, laughing; between them, in vivid color, was a can of coke, her peace offering after a day of silence.

Pam, too, stared at the page, flooded with the emotion from that day. Weakly, she smiled and offered, "Jinx."

He returned her weak smile, but closed his eyes, remembering. "Do you know how hard it was for me to not talk to you that day?" he asked quietly. "You were trying to get me to break, joking, and said, 'You can tell me anything, Jim.'" He opened his eyes and looked at her, and it broke her heart to see that his eyes were glossy with unshed tears. "You have no idea how close I was to just… to just _telling_ you."

She nodded, refusing to look away from him. A sad smile crossed her face as she said, "I think I'm beginning to understand." She reached for his hand, grateful when she felt him squeeze hers back reassuringly.

With his free hand, Jim flipped the book over to the next page. Upon realization of what it was depicting, he laughed out loud, a sound she had truly missed. It was a simple, colored pencil rendering of Andy Bernard at reception, and the look on his face was propositioning.

Grinning, Jim asked, "I got you good, didn't I, Beesly?" He couldn't help but laugh, truly proud of himself.

She allowed him this victory, laughing along with him. "Yes, Jim," she placated. "You got me good. But do you want to know why this is _here,_ in this sketchbook? It's a stupid reason, but I am trying to be honest, and courageous."

He stopped laughing and looked down at her. "Hey. Don't be like that."

"Alright. This is here because… well, as you can see on my face in the drawing… I'm smiling. And it is _not_ because I was just asked to go 'throw a disc around' with one Andrew Bernard," she said, smiling, nudged him in the side. Ignoring his 'Who, me?' shrug, she took a deep breath and continued. "I happen to be smiling like an idiot because I realized that despite the absolute hell I'd put you through… you still knew me. Better than anyone." She looked straight into his eyes to get her point across. "Jim, the fact that you still cared enough about me to set up this prank on me, that you still gave a damn… that meant more to me than you'll ever know. And I guess… I don't know, I guess that's why I came here. Because I've never apologized to you, and I've never thanked you."

"You don't ever have to thank me for being your friend, Pam," he interrupted quietly, but firmly.

She took his other hand in hers, needing him to understand. "Yes, Jim. I do," she asserted. "Because it isn't just that you're my friend. _God_. You opened my eyes! You made me feel like I'm worth something." Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, and her voice was shaking, but she needed him to hear this. "No one – _no one _– has ever done that for me, done anything for me so selflessly. And I've never thanked you for that, and I've never apologized for taking you for granted. Because I did, and I am so sorry."

He leaned forward to take her in his arms, and she accepted his embrace greedily, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Inhaling his scent and reveling in the warmth of him, she couldn't help but mumble into his neck, "I missed you. God, Jim, I missed you."

He said nothing, but gathered her in closer, so close that she was half on his lap and he was wrapped around her. The utter absurdity of it all did not escape either of them: the hour, half past midnight; Jim in his pajamas; Pam's clothes stained with clay and glaze from her class.

Her hands were warm on his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt; his were wrapped in her messy hair and rubbing soothing circles on her lower back. His cheek came to rest on her head, and he whispered, "I'm so glad you came here tonight."

Slowly, she pulled back from him, just enough to be able to look him in the eye, so close that she could feel his breath on her face. "Really?"

He rested his forehead against hers, nodding. "I'm sorry I didn't make it to your show."

She was certain that he could _feel_ her smile, even though his eyes were closed. "I'm glad you didn't come." At his surprised look, she continued. "If you'd come, then we probably wouldn't be here."

For a moment, he was silent, staring meaningfully into her eyes, leaning closer and closer.

And then he smiled. "Then I guess I'm not sorry."

Laughing, she returned to her previous spot cocooned in his embrace. Though the issues between them were in no way resolved, she felt more relaxed than she had in years. Stealing a glance at his face, Pam was once again struck by how incredibly _beautiful_ he was, inside and out. Almost on a sigh, as an afterthought, she said, "You know that I'm in love with you, don't you?" Though it was phrased as a question, it came out as a definitive statement – internally, she tensed, waiting to feel him balk and pull away at her absolute lack of tact.

But instead, he sighed, shifting her in his arms to rest his cheek next to hers. "Yeah. I do." He was quiet for a beat, but then she could almost _hear_ him smile as he let out a soft laugh. "But, god… hearing you say it…" again, he laughed, a clear, gorgeous sound that was music to her ears, "you really don't know how happy that makes me."

His smile was contagious, and soon she was grinning from ear to ear, feeling like a complete fool but caring not in the least. "Well, then," Pam stated, pulling back just far enough to look him in the eye, taking his face in her hands, "listen up. Jim? I'm in love with you. Pathetically, ridiculously, idiotically in love with you." Smirking, she added, "It's a bit sad, really." He laughed again, and she continued. "I want you to be happy every day; you have no idea what your smile does to me. I want to be the reason that you smile – I know I was the reason you were unhappy for a long time, and I promise, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you let me."

Quirking an eyebrow at her, he leaned in with a grin and whispered into her ear, "Pam Beesly, did you just propose to me?"

Shoving him in the shoulder, she laughed. "Not quite, Halpert. I guess… hell, I don't know. Maybe I'm asking you out on a date; maybe I'm asking you to stick around forever." She was quiet for a moment or two, and looked at him, serious. "I know there's still a lot unresolved between us. I hurt you, and those first few months when you came back… you hurt me." Shrugging, she smiled sadly at him. "And I know… I know you're with Karen now, and – "

"Pam," he interrupted.

"Jim, she's really great," she continued. "And if she makes you happy… then I guess that's something I'll have to deal with. I just…"

"Pam." He was a bit more forceful this time, but she continued over him.

"I just want you to be happy, Jim. You deserve happiness, and if she makes you hap – "

She was interrupted again, but this time, it was not his voice that cut her off. Gently, but firmly, he pressed his lips against hers, effectively putting a stop to her nervous rambling.

Just as quickly he'd kissed her, he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. "Now it's your turn to listen up," he said. "You make me happy, Pam. You make me happy. Karen and I…" he shook his head against hers before continuing. "That's been over for a while; we just couldn't admit it to ourselves. I haven't been fair to her – or to you – and for that, _I'm_ sorry. Because Pam, my feelings for you never changed. I wished they had, sometimes… but I didn't stop loving you. I couldn't."

All that she could do was smile, and lean into him, taking comfort in the fact that she was there with him, with no walls. They sat there in silence until they both fell into a comfortable sleep, her sketchbook forgotten at their feet.

* * *

_Thanks so much for reading… I really do appreciate it. Chapter 4 (most likely the final chapter) will be coming soon – it might be a very, very mild M, but we'll see what the muse wants me to do. However, your thoughts on that might help me out! Again, thanks for reading! _


End file.
